TuesdayMar 17, 2026
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
William Congreve (24 January 1670 - 19 January 1729) was an English playwright and poet.
Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
Alack, he's gone the way of all flesh.
Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure, Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.
No mask like open truth to cover lies, As to go naked is the best disguise.
See how love and murder will out.
A little disdain is not amiss; A little scorn is alluring.
Courtship is to marriage, as a very witty prologue to a very dull play.
I know that's a secret, for it's whispered everywhere.
Poetry, the eldest sister of all arts, and parent of most.
Every man plays the fool once in his life, but to marry is playing the fool all one's life long.
Careless she is with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected.
O, she is the antidote to desire.
For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, And though late, a sure reward succeeds.
I nauseate walking; tis a country diversion, I loathe the country.
O fie, miss, you must not kiss and tell.
Thou liar of the first magnitude.
Loves but a frailty of the mind, When tis not with ambition joined.
Though marriage makes man and wife one flesh, it leaves em still two fools.
Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.
Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. By magic numbers and persuasive sound.
Turn pimp, flatterer, quack, lawyer, parson, be chaplain to an atheist, or stallion to an old woman, anything but a poet; for a poet is worse, more servile, timorous and fawning than any I have named.
Thou art a retailer of phrases, and dost deal in remnants of remnants.
Retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.
Defer not till tomorrow to be wise, Tomorrow's sun to thee may never rise.
Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing, though the overtaking and possessing of a wish discovers the folly of the chase.
It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind.
Women are like tricks by sleight of hand, Which, to admire, we should not understand.
She likes herself, yet others hates For that which in herself she prizes; And while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing that she despises.
Heav'n hath no rage like love to hatred turn'd, Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd.
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